


Asking a Fool for a Heart

by AshenStardust



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Blood Play, Consenting Adults, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Knife Play, Naked Female Clothed Male, No Aftercare, POV Second Person, Porn, Smut, Violence, inappropriate use of knives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:34:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23658448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AshenStardust/pseuds/AshenStardust
Summary: The Reader has never felt wholly comfortable around Cicero, but he is the only person that understands and eases her self-loathing.
Relationships: Cicero (Elder Scrolls)/Reader, Cicero/Female Listener (Elder Scrolls)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 68





	Asking a Fool for a Heart

**Author's Note:**

> This is, in its entirety, porn. Its violent and not realistic and doesn't end on a particularly happy note.  
> That being said it has some of the best writing and characterization I've ever created.

You came into the sanctuary on fire. Your contract had not gone according to plan. Not at all. You didn’t want to get into detail as to precisely how and why you failed. You wanted to kill something. You needed it. Even the soothing caress of the Night Mother which was ever present when you were in her vicinity could not quell your storm of emotions.

You breezed past Babette. You would not find the solace you were looking for from her, nor would you find it from Nazir and his crowd of recruits. No. You needed something darker and you almost had the presence of mind to hate yourself for it. No amount of shame could stop you.

“Cicero,” you hissed as you entered the room of the Night Mother. You stopped short upon entering as Cicero was not in his normal place. He was not in the room at all. A chill ran down your spine and you sobered somewhat. 

“Something Cicero can help her with?” his voice sounded behind you the same time his body pressed against yours. You startled near violently and his arms wrapped around your front to pull you closer.

You turned your head, as far as he would allow, to look at him. He looked as he always did, mischievous and cruel. “Need you,” you admitted and swallowed. Your mouth was suddenly very dry. One of his hands wandered down your tummy and you let out a shuddering breath when his fingers stilled over the apex of your thighs.

“The pretty girl would finally submit to Cicero?” he asked, and his lips curled into a devilish smile. This was the part where you said no. This was the part where you fought him and let him drain the blood lust from your veins.

G I V E I N

A strangled noise escaped you and your hand covered his to press his fingers into your flesh. A flash of surprise crossed his features. Then something else began to show through, everything else, and he turned you to face him and pressed you against the nearest wall.

“Cicero wants to know if he scares her,” he said. His gaze had not strayed from your own for even a moment, and his fingers began pressing small circles into your clit through your clothes.

“Yes,” you breathed, but your blown pupils gave you away more than your words. 

“Don’t lie, oh no, pretty girl, or Cicero won’t hurt her the way she likes,” he said and the pressure from his fingers increased. You arched into him and whimpered. Cicero terrified you. He was power and madness and you wanted to orgasm with his fingers buried in your cunt so badly that your fear only enhanced your arousal.

“Please.”

“Cicero knows this sound. It is the sound she makes when she is impatient with him,” he chastised.

“Please,” you begged once more and hoped your lilting whine would appease him.

He placed a hand around your throat and his other hand went to unsheathe his dagger. His grip did not allow for much movement, but you could hear the metal of the blade scrape against leather. Your heart rate was heightened already and the press of cool metal to your skin made you squirm uncomfortably. 

“Tell Cicero what she wants,” he commanded. The back of his blade pressed into the exposed skin above the hem of your pants. Your mind blanked. You wanted him to hurt you, to bleed your dry, but the loss of his fingers toying with your slit had you wanting more. His calculating gaze held you expectantly and you flushed under your newfound vulnerability even when he had handed you control.

“Take off my clothes.” Your voice was barely above a whisper. Cicero tilted his head like he was thinking, like he didn’t like being told what to do, then he slid is blade to the inside of your shirt and you heard the fabric tear. The cold air hit your skin and you wanted to regret the position you were in.

The rags of your shirt sat uselessly on the ground, but Cicero scarcely looked at your body. Somehow that was worse than if he had ogled your body. The tip of his blade pressed against your skin as he wormed it under your small clothes and the small yelp that escaped you was more from your own nerves than from pain. He cut your small clothes away more quickly than he had your shirt and his thumb traced soothingly along your jawline.

His face came very near yours and his lips brushed against your cheek close to your ear. “Take off your pants,” he instructed. There was a small relief in the absence of his stare, but you fumbled shakily with the hem of your pants regardless. He was patient with you. His face pressed more closely to yours and he hummed softly in your ear. You closed your eyes against the soft feel of him and stepped out of your pants with a shaking sigh.

You moved your hands up tentatively. You ghosted your fingers over his clothes until your fingers were buried in the nape of his neck. There was a ridiculous thrill in him allowing you to touch him. “Punish me,” you requested. Your lips brushed over his skin and you wondered if he might kiss you when this was done.

Cicero pulled away then. “Has the pretty girl done something naughty?” he asked.

You glared at him, but the anger and hate were meant for you. “I botched the last mission I was given,” you admitted and cursed the feel of tears burning in your eyes.

“Cicero knows,” he cooed. The sharp side of his blade pressed into the exposed skin of your stomach. There was a profound softness in his gaze, an understanding and acceptance of your failure that warred with the bite of the blade he had pressed against you. 

“I need you.” You didn’t want to admit it. Everyone knew. You knew. Cicero was the one you always turned to. You moved your hands slowly to caress along his jawline and cup his face in your hands. The wildness had not left his eyes, but you could feel him relaxing under your fingers.

“Cicero knows,” he repeated softly. Then he was guiding you down from the wall to lie on the floor. The cold stones made you gasp and arch. Cicero clicked his tongue. “Careful or she will cut herself,” he warned. He set the knife to the side for long enough to gather your hands in his and placed them far above your head. “These will stay,” he was practically growling, and your brow furrowed at his change of mood. You swallowed and nodded your understanding as he took up the knife again.

He let go of your neck to place his hand in the valley between your breasts. He sat back, but his eyes still did not leave yours. He did not look when he made his first cut. He didn’t trace the line with his fingers. He pressed the blade to your ribs with just enough pressure to split the skin and further still to draw blood. You gasped at the belated pain as he slid the knife down to your hip. He kept the damned thing so sharp the parting of your skin felt more uncomfortable than painful.

He left the line and you could feel your blood running in rivulets down your side. The pain was slowly catching up and he must have seen it in your eyes because the hand he was using to press you into the floor moved down to draw a slow line up your slit. You hadn’t removed your small clothes when you’d taken off your pants, but you could see your arousal glisten on his gloved finger. He hummed thoughtfully, pulled his blade through the strap of your small clothes, and pressed his fingers into your clit. 

“Cicero,” you breathed as he started another line down your body with his blade. You hadn’t realized this was making you ache until his fingers began paying attention to your clit again. He drew the next line maybe an inch to the right of his last and when he was finished, he leaned his head down and drug his tongue up the length of it. 

You watched, entranced, as the blood pooled on his tongue and spilled away. You could feel the heat of his breath fan against the heat of your skin and the texture of his tongue inside you. His tongue reached the top of your ribs and he went further - drawing a red stripe up the underside of your breast. His teeth latched onto your nipple and you screamed. He drug his teeth wider and bit down again. You arched into him and another scream tore from you. Your chest heaved and your skin itched.

He let go of you in favor of taking up his knife again. He was laughing, giggling madly, and you noticed you were crying. Fear sang in your heart at the glint in his eyes. The back of his blade drug up your navel and through the valley of your breasts. You thought you might go mad from panic when you felt the tip of it rest heavily on the hollow of your throat.

T R U S T M E

your gaze craned upward until you could see the coffin. Cicero paused his blade and for the first time his eyes left your face.

"Mother doesn't mind," he noted but there was a question in his tone.

"I think-" you paused and looked back to Cicero, "I think she's talking to me," you said and you could taste the madness of that statement on your tongue. 

"That's preposterous!" He exclaimed and his blade bit deeper into your flesh. "There is already a listener," he reminded.

"Of course," you agreed quickly. Cicero seemed to realize then that he was putting too much pressure on the knife.

He eased back but did not let you free. "What did she say?" He asked.

You flushed and turned your head away. "She told me to submit to you," you said to the wall, "and when fear began to consume me, she told me to trust her."

Cicero hummed in thought. "Ha!" He laughed and jerked above you. Your head straightened, startled, to look at him. "Mother approves of Cicero's new toy," he beamed.

His attention returned to you. "Oh but the pretty girl should be punished, yes?" He giggled and sheathed his blade. You looked at him in confusion and followed the length of his arm to where he suddenly pressed the pommel to your slit. The metal end was cold but the leather grip was warm from his hand. You gasped when it brushed over your clit but began squirming when he pressed lower to have it enter your cunt.

Uncertainty had you flushing, and your hands flexed under his grip. "Shh," he soothed, "Cicero will not hurt his toy." He angled the pommel up and you moaned. His other hand went to the breast he had not bitten, and he squeezed it cruelly. He thrust the pommel into you again, testing your reaction, before he set a more punishing pace. The unyielding metal ball hit home with every thrust and you could not quell your cries.

You felt your pulse pick up its pace in your ribs. Cicero must have seen the change in your expression because he abandoned your abused nipple in favor of taking up your clit in his fingers. He twisted and pinched and you screamed. You didn’t realize until your voice wavered into a whimper that you’d orgasmed and squirted across the floor. Your body clenched around the stiff grip of the dagger as Cicero made sure you rode out every wave of pleasure. His thrusting didn’t stop until you were limp and weeping.

“Hush now. She did so well for Cicero. The pretty girl learned her lesson,” he soothed. He left the blade to fall from you as he leaned down to pick you up. He carried you to your room and set you gently on top of your blankets. The soft leather of his gloves traced your body and he looked down at you with a new fondness. “You did so well,” he assured you again before he took his leave.

You groaned in pain. You didn’t want to lie on your back, but you were afraid to turn over on your sides. The lines he’d cut into your body were remarkably straight and perfectly parallel. You were sore not just from his merciless dagger work in your cunt but from lying for so long on the stone floor.

You realized he wasn’t coming back for you. Your face was already wet from your tears of pain and ecstasy, but now you wept because you felt alone. Even the embrace of the Night Mother could not dampen the hollow of your soul. You turned over then, winching slightly, and wrapped your arms around your body. The harm of the cold north air would be something you’d concern yourself with after you’d slept off your exhaustion.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> I'd love for comments on this thing. Its far longer, and a lot more, than I ever imagined.  
> Kudos are also valuable feedback and greatly appreciated.


End file.
